


Office Hours

by RbtlSR



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Light BDSM, Professors, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23115976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RbtlSR/pseuds/RbtlSR
Summary: Lauren attends her professor's office hours and learns a little more than she expected
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Office Hours

The clicking of Lauren's sensible heels against the linoleum began to slow as she passed the last few office numbers along the hallway, counting down by twos, until she reached the one at the far end. "B151 Dr. Whittaker, PhD, Department of Sociology" read the placard by the door. 

The door appeared to be closed, as did all the other offices she noticed—who holds office hours at 9pm on a Friday?—but as she approached she could tell it was slightly ajar, casting a warm sliver of light out onto the floor of the hallway. 

It was only then that she glanced down at her outfit and thought about her modesty. It had seemed cute and very business casual chic that morning, but she wondered now if her mid length black pleated skirt and form fitting white blouse might send the wrong message at this hour, visiting her professor's office on a Friday evening. It certainly flattered her figure, the A line of the skirt accentuating her trim waist, and one too many buttons open on her blouse to accommodate her C cup breasts on her comparatively slender frame. A small necklace dangled around her neck, drawing attention to her collarbones. She knew it was a bit odd, but she'd always thought they were an elegant feature, and went out of her way to show them off. Her long curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail added to her studious look at least. Well, no use worrying about any of that now. 

"Right," she told herself, taking in a deep breath to collect herself. He had surely heard her coming down the hall, and there was no one else around at this hour, so she couldn't stand there in the hallway for too long without making things weird. With one last deep breath she knocked twice on the door frame. 

"Door's open, come in" came the voice from inside. She squared her shoulders and opened the door, taking a step inside. Her professor looked up from his grading and set it aside, gesturing for her to sit down across from him at the large desk. He wore a loose fitting dress shirt, casually tucked into his slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing the lean muscles in his forearms. He had a face that always managed to looked serious yet kind and understanding, an unimposing kind of handsome, the stereotypical professor glasses balancing out the strong jawline, a quiet strength about him, amplified by the cozy lighting in his office and the feeling that it was really too late to still be there, almost as if she was intruding in his private study.   
She glanced questioningly at the door and back at him, unsure of whether she should close it behind her, but her professor answered her unasked question with "leave it open please." 

She wiped her palms on her skirt as she sat down, heart beating rapidly in her chest. Why was she so nervous? It was just office hours, she'd spoken to plenty of professors before. 

She set down her books and papers in front of her, pages full of highlighted passages and annotated notes. Professors liked that, she'd learned, because it showed that you'd come prepared and weren't wasting their time. 

She was a bright student without a doubt, and professors had always taken a liking to her quickly, impressed by her hard work and insight.   
Well, most professors, anyway.

Despite the kindness in his eyes, Professor Whittaker was the harshest grader she'd ever had. The only grades for his class consisted of three essays and a final paper that would make up 50% of her grade, and despite her best efforts she'd received an A- and two Bs on the first three papers and she was nervous. Others in the class weren't faring any better, but that wasn't much consolation when it came to her GPA, precariously close to falling below the magna cum laude threshold for the distinction that she'd been coveting since her freshman year. She knew she should have taken a lower division class for the social sciences general education requirement, but "The Human Body in Society" had sounded fascinating and perfect for rounding out her biology major. Oh well, it was only a few weeks from the end of the semester, far too late for such thoughts now. 

Her professor looked at her expectantly from across the desk, waiting for her to begin. He recognized her from class as one of the students who always listened attentively, pen scribbling furiously as she took notes. She had this endearing habit of pursing her lips and cocking her head when something didn't quite make sense to her, followed by the "aha" moment of clarity when she figured it out. It was always nice to know your students were actively engaging with the material during lecture. 

"I had a question about the final paper," she began, glancing up at him nervously before continuing. "Connecting such broad topics from the entire course has been a bit of a challenge, and I was wondering if you would be willing to look over my draft outline and let me know what you think. I don't want to base the entire paper on what turns out to be a weak central argument."   
"Alright, I can do that" Dr. Whittaker responded, holding out his hand to take the pages. 

She continued to look down as she handed over the pages, heat rising in her cheeks. She tried to remain composed as she reminded herself that this was an essay assignment about course material after all, they were both adults, and there was nothing inappropriate about an academic discussion that covered sexual topics in a course about the human body. 

She fidgeted with her pen in her hands as she snuck occasional glances up at her professor, looking for any indication of what he thought as he was reading. He scribbled some notes in the margins that she couldn't make out from across the desk. 

"Oh god," she wondered to herself, "has he gotten to that section yet?"

Finally he put the papers down and looked up at her again, his expression neutral and thoughtful. After a moment he spoke, "Well, if you wanted to make that argument you wouldn't be the first. There were and still are many second wave feminists who argue that pornography and deviant sex and BDSM are all deeply rooted in misogyny and harmful to women," he began.   
"But?" She asked, sensing there was a second part coming. "But," he continued "if you're going to make such an argument in a final comprehensive essay for my course, you're at least going to have to address the counter arguments." 

She couldn't help but show her surprise at that. "Counter arguments? But those haven't been part of the material covered in class!"  
He seemed to smile a bit at that before saying, "well, yes, we haven't addressed it through a third wave feminist lens yet" with a tone that made it very clear that that was what he considered to be the correct perspective. 

She felt a knot of anxiety twist in her stomach, along with a little bit of excitement and hope, the feelings she'd been trying to tamp down for years.   
She'd have to do a lot more work on her paper, certainly, but her mind was racing through the implications for herself. 

For as long as she could remember she'd found the idea of spanking exciting. She had internet access of course, so she knew that there was plenty of spanking porn out there, but she'd always felt dirty and wrong about her interest in it, like she was doing something bad, and so she didn't let herself look at it. 

Good feminists didn't fantasize about being bent over and spanked. The materials she'd read about for this class so far had only further cemented the idea in her mind that as a feminist she shouldn't be turned on by such things, so she kept her shameful secret to herself. 

Did this mean that maybe she didn't have to feel guilty about such a fantasy? That she wasn't a bad feminist for secretly being turned on by the idea?

"Lauren." Professor Whittaker's use of her name startled her out of her thoughts and she looked back up at him. She wondered if he could tell what she'd been thinking. Were her cheeks flushed? She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying not to squirm. 

Professor Whittaker leaned back in his own chair, looking at her thoughtfully from across the desk, as if trying to make up his own mind about something. After a moment he carefully said "You seem surprised by this. Are there any more questions you'd like to ask me?"

She swallowed and took a deep breath before asking the question really on her mind, "does that mean there are feminists who think it's okay to ... like these things?" She blushed furiously. 

There was a smile in voice when he responded, "Yes, Lauren. In fact I know quite a few myself."  
She felt her heart pounding in her chest, unsure if she was really having this conversation right now or whether this was all just some crazy dream. Was this really happening? Surely conversations like this didn't happen in real life. Finally she managed to respond, "Really?"

Professor Whittaker fixed his gaze on her intently. He would have had to be blind not to notice how attractive his younger student was. The nervous excitement in her voice certainly suggested that her interest in the matter was more than academic, no longer thinking about the grade she'd be receiving in class. Was he really going to do this? Then again, could he really pass up an opportunity like this?

"Why is this something that surprises you?" he asked, his innocent tone belying the implications of such a question. 

She bit her lip and fidgeted with her hands in her lap, clearly self conscious but unable to bring herself to put an end to the direction this conversation seemed to be taking. Instead of a direct answer she turned it back around on him, her voice somewhat timid as she asked "and there are men who are willing to do this? Good men, I mean, who get enjoyment from causing women pain?"

Professor Whittaker straightened in his seat, and it was his turn to pause for a moment, considering how to respond. "There are many men who enjoy such things in a consensual way," he informed her, deliberating a second before adding "bringing a woman pleasure through pain can be incredibly erotic and exciting. There is a thrill in having that power over someone, in having that effect on them." As he said this he drummed his fingers against his desk, and Lauren couldn't help but glance down and wonder if those hands had ever been used that way, what it would feel like to have those hands on her skin, teasing her, or wrapped firmly around her wrists, holding her in place. What would it feel like to have those hands caressing her ass? Had they ever spanked a woman before?

Lauren's entire body was tense by this point, barely contained excitement and nervousness coursing through her. This conversation had already crossed the line, she realized. They were really doing this. She couldn't recall having ever felt like this before. No amount of flirting or teasing or foreplay with past boyfriends had ever compared to the rush that hearing him say those words had given her. 

She turned in her chair, reaching behind her and stretching out her arm to close the door behind her with a click, locking it for good measure. In that moment the professor was able to appreciate the view as she twisted to do so, stretching the fabric her her blouse across her chest and drawing his attention to her lovely chest and lithe form. He imagined reaching out to run his hand along her side as he did so, how it would feel to grip her tiny waist in his hands, to run his fingers over her skin and gave her arch against him. 

He was snapped out of these thoughts when she asked, "Would you show me?"


End file.
